


Lost and Found

by beetle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Mirasol, who wanted “any combination of your choice between Spike/Jesse/Xander and the prompt is’ Everybody Hurts, by REM. Three ficlets, 1500 words. Whether the protag is Xander or Jesse is entirely up to the reader *bows*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU, set post-“Harsh Light of Day”(S4) and Ats “In The Dark”(S1); muy oblique spoilers for BtVS “Welcome to the Hellmouth/The Harvest".

**The Runner**  
  
It's Indian-summer in L.A. and he's so damn  _cold_  his teeth are chattering.   
  
Around him, the night, the cement, the  _world_  sizzles and bakes with heat. But all he wants is a sweater, or some whiskey--anything to make the coldness stop.  
  
Not that either of those things ever works.  
  
A car idles behind him in the alley; he hugs a wall so it can drive by, but it keeps pace with him.   
  
"Hullo, lovely,” a deep, English voice purrs and, for the first time in three years, his shivers have nothing to do with the cold. "What's a pretty, dead thing like you doin' out on a night like this?"  
  
Frozen, now, in more ways than one, he turns to see a battered DeSoto with painted over windows. The passenger-side window is rolled down and from this angle, he can see a neat, white hand splayed on midnight denim like a dead starfish.  
  
"What?" His voice is rusty and strange from weeks of disuse.  
  
"Hallow's Eve ain’t a night for the likes of us to be braving dark alleys and such, pet."   
  
"How'd you know that  _I’m_  a--" even after all this time, he still can't say it, still can't admit it.   
  
"A vampire, love? Well, your distinct lack of heartbeat was m' first clue. . . ." an amused, sharp-featured face, topped by moon-white hair fills the window. "Need a ride, then?"  
  
Ignoring the innuendo--and the blatant once-over--he starts walking. "No thanks."  
  
The DeSoto's engine rumbles and the car is once again keeping pace.  
  
"Notice you walking alone, and I says: `welladay, William! Breakfast a la carte!' Turns out you're a fellow leech . . . toolin' about in rags, looking like you haven't seen a decent meal in weeks. Maybe months."  
  
 _Maybe never. . . ._  
  
"I see all this and think, ‘that looks like a lad at loose ends. No place, no purpose, no master’ . . . bleedin’ shame, that last bit.” This . . .  _William_  leers. "I can be your purpose . . . be your  _master_ , if you're in the market for one."  
  
"Had enough of those, thanks." Confused flashes of Darla's cruel, beautiful face make him shudder.   
  
He’s unprepared when William’s steady, gaze turns sharp and curious . . . unprepared to be seen right into.   
  
Before the other vampire sees the tears in his eyes he looks away.  
  
“Suppose you have,” William says softly. Then: “I was wrong, mate . . . you look like someone who needs a friend. Badly.”  
  
He’s startled into meeting William’s gaze again and sees--  
  
 _\--Willow so afraid he can smell her fear makes him hungry makes him_ hard _and oh god no don’t run I’m still the same still_ me _don’t leave me alone please--_  
  
\--his own loneliness reflected back to him in eyes like a crystalline mirror.  
  
“No,” he says, shaking his head. William blinks.   
  
“No?”  
  
“What--are you deaf as well as deficient? I said  _no_!”  
  
Then he’s outta there--up a fire-escape.  
  
“Don’t run off, mate--”  
  
Pelting across rooftops.  
  
“--don’t have to be alone anymore!”  
  
Gone.  
  
 **Dog Watch**  
  
  
“They won’t take you back, you know?”  
  
He looks up, startled by a voice he’d hoped--and feared--he’d never hear again; William sits across from him.  
  
“You.”   
  
That smirking leer. “Not the most effervescent greeting, but a bloke takes what he can get, these days.”  
  
“I wasn’t expecting company.” It’s apropos of nothing, and he realizes how thoroughly he lacks even basic conversational skills.   
  
“So . . . gonna do another runner, or can I order a cuppa without having to chase you halfway across Los Angeles?”  
  
“I haven’t finished my coffee.” Again, apropos of nothing, but the words are doing something they haven’t done in years: holding back the urge to run. “W-who won’t take me back?   
  
William’s scarred right eyebrow quirks.  
  
“Your friends, or family, or girlfriend--whoever you think not eating people will impress, love.”  
  
“You’ve been spying on me.”  
  
William shrugs unapologetically. “Intrigued me, didn’t you? Not used to pretty young vamps runnin' from me like I’ve got the plague.”  
  
At the golden flicker in William’s eyes, he squirms . . . glances around the empty diner. “Still not looking for a master.”  
  
“And  _I_  still think that’s a bleedin’ shame, pet.” That voice, whiskey-warm and husky with  _want_  curls around him, from cock to cerebral cortex.  
  
A chuckle that’s just as warm and rich as the words that precede it and William is stroking his fingers fleetingly. “From the smell of you, you think that’s a bleedin’ shame, too. . . .”  
  
“Don’t!” He jerks away from William’s touch and voice and super-sniffer. “I’m not yours, you don’t get to--”  _sniff me_?  
  
“Calm down pet,” William says in a strangely soothing voice. “Didn’t mean any harm by it--kinda instinctual, you know?”  
  
“No, I  _don’t know_ , I’m not anything like  _you_ , I’m not--”  
  
“A dead, soulless fiend?” William snorts. “Hate to disillusion you, love.”  
  
He stands up, ready to run because the words aren’t working anymore and he’s not a people person anymore and dawn’s only two hours away.  
  
William grabs his hand, gently but firmly.  
  
“Look at me, love.”  
  
“No,” he says, even as he turns to face those bright, laser-beam eyes.  
  
William reaches up slowly, oh-so-slowly . . . the urge to run throbs like a pulse, so loud it’s nearly audible. Then those fingers are touching his face, brushing lank hair off his forehead.   
  
His eyes slip shut and he whimpers.   
  
“You’re so w-warm.”  
  
“Tell me, pet . . . when was the last time you ate?”  
  
“Few days ago. . . .”  
  
“Human blood?”  
  
He squinches his eyes shut and holds very still.  
  
“I’ll take that as a no.” William sighs. “Poor, lost boy.”  
  
Then the warm, gentle fingers are gone and he opens his eyes. William’s are less than three inches away and that’s not right at all.  
  
“If I’m good . . . if I’m good, someday I get to go  _home_ , William,” he whispers; another non-sequitor that really isn’t.  
  
One last caress and golden flicker, then William strides off without looking back. . . .  
  


*

  
  
Left alone, he sits down.  
  
Finishes his coffee.  
  
  
 **Home . . . Family**  
  
“You never did tell me your name, pet.”  
  
William’s been following him around all night.  
  
“Doesn’t matter. You can’t be here.”   
  
“The fact that I  _am_  here would suggest otherwise. . . .”  
  
“No--I mean you have to go away. You eat people.”  
  
“Twice nightly, even.”  
  
“ _I_  don’t eat people.”  
  
“So I’ve noticed.”  
  
Empty factories loom above them, watch them with sightless eyes.   
  
“Been keeping tabs on you for weeks, and you haven’t so much as taken a sip. I’m curious . . . have you  _ever_ eaten anyone.”  
  
He shakes his head no, proud and ashamed at the same time.  
  
“That’s some will-power you’ve got, mate.  _I_  couldn’t do it,” William admits with a sideways glance. “What does your sire think of your . . . diet?”  
  
He stiffens. “My Sire doesn’t--”  _care whether I'm dust or not? Want me around enough to keep me?_  
  
“Darla always was a heartless cow,” William says dismissively, but  _that_  name--the one he reveres and misses and hates and needs--is like being doused in holy water.  
  
“How did you know?”  
  
“You smell of her . . . of copper and roses and . . . something dark and sweet that I imagine is all you, since there was nothin' sweet whatsoever about the horrid bitch.”  
  
“You know her?”  
  
“Could say that.” William sketches a sardonic, perfectly courtly bow. “Allow me to properly introduce m’self. William the Bloody, also known as Spike. Sired by Drusilla, who was sired by Angelus, who was sired by none other than Herself, of the line of Aurelius.”  
  
 _Oh_.   
  
“That makes us family, in case you weren’t keeping track,” William adds when no response is forthcoming.  
  
“I have a family. A  _human_  family.”  
  
“Had, love. Not yours, anymore.”  
  
He moans, wanting nothing more than the condemned building he’s been squatting in, the stained, scroffy mattress he’s been sleeping on. “Why won’t you leave me alone? You want me to leave L.A.? I’m gone, just--go away, please.”  
  
William shakes his head. “Can’t do that, lovely. Not lettin’  _you_  leave, either.”  
  
And here come the eyes and the hands, followed by the lips--all far warmer than they should be.  
  
But he’s allowing William’s touch, William’s kiss, William’s  _body_. He doesn’t know what to do with any part of _himself_ , so he stands there, frozen, frightened, shaking.  
  
“What? Never been kissed?” There’s laughter in William’s voice and his laser-beam eyes.  
  
When he doesn’t answer, William’s arms tighten around him. “Didn’t Darla take you after she turned you, pet?”  
  
“No! I--I woke up and I had to be bait and the Slayer came and Luke got dusted and they didn’t want me around and I ran away and--” the words are spilling out like tears, but tears are strangely absent.  
  
“Hush . . . sweet boy,” William murmurs, kissing him again. It  _feels_  right, but it’s so wrong.  
  
“Please don’t--”  _make me kill people. Don’t make me be bad_. . . . “If I’m good, someday I get to go home,” he pleads.   
  
William’s arms and smile are gentle, and possessive.   
  
“You  _are_  home, pet.”


	2. Found 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost boy? No more!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU, post-“Harsh Light of Day”(S4) and Ats “In The Dark”(S1).

Spike keeps up a steady litany of promises and soothing nonsense words, but the boy's dreams are still dark, still . . .  _nightmares_.  
  
He murmurs the names of people Spike has heard of, or knows--people he's tried to kill more than once--in the most forlorn voice. But despite the temptation to wake him up in any of a thousand deliciously wicked ways, Spike refrains from doing so. He senses that for all of the boy's twitching and muttering, sighing and moaning, this may be the best day's rest he's had since he was turned.  
  
"Please . . . don't leave me," the boy begs. Filtered, dusty light sneaks in through the rips and tiny holes in the moth-eaten black-out curtains over the room’s only window, providing more than enough light to see the boy’s pale, tired face scrinching up as if he’s about to cry in his sleep.   
  
Spike remembers the signs well, remembers mornings spent trying to keep that look from Dru’s face, keep the voices and visions from waking her out of the little sleep she was able to get. . . .  
  
He brushes the boy’s dirty dark hair back out of his face. “Hush, now, love. It’s alright, isn’t it? I’m here now. Won’t ever leave you—“  
  
And so on. He misses Dru in pangs that hurt less than he would’ve thought possible.  
  
Under the gentle caress of his index finger, the boy’s brow smoothes out and he inches infinitesimally closer to Spike, his hair spilling onto his forehead. Spike brushes it back again, taking another good, hard look at his prize.  
  
Pale, even for a vampire, from lack of blood, and rail-thin to boot, his face is young and starved, all strong angles, but for the slight curve to his cheek and the fan of thick dark lashes that fan out on them. His lips are bitten and chapped, his skin cold to the touch.  
  
Spike would wonder how the boy’s been staying ahead of starvation, but the building they’re currently dossing in—-that the boy’s been squatting in for three years,  _and which_  has surely been condemned for at least as long as Spike’s been undead--is teeming with absolutely nothing.  
  
 _Taking a page out of Angel’s book, are you, love? No more. Gonna be bloody brilliant when I’m done with you: fearless, deadly and beautiful._  Spike strokes his finger down the boy’s face.  _And mine. You’ll be--_  
  
Dark, alert eyes are suddenly gazing up into Spike’s own. The transition from sleeping to waking is nothing more dramatic than a blink, and a sudden, sharp breath that isn’t exhaled.  
  
It takes Spike nearly a minute to figure out what to say to break the silence of their stare.   
  
“Hello, lovely.”  
  
“Hello, William,” the boy says, a somber acknowledgment of Spike’s presence with no indicators either way as to his own feelings on the matter.  
  
 _Not that I care,_  Spike thinks--anger thinly veiling anxiety.  _This isn’t bloody kindergarten—-not bloody_ Sesame Street _. Gave himself to me, and there’s_ no _givesies-backsies. I won’t let there be._  
  
The rest of the thought is lost as the boy leans toward Spike hesitantly, and tucks his face into the crook of Spike’s neck. The tip of his nose is cold against the spot where Spike’s pulse isn’t.  
  
“Warm,” he whispers huskily, shivering; Spike pulls him closer possessively in response. “You’re so  _warm_.”  
  
“Hush, now. Rest.” There’s a fine tremor in Spike’s voice, one the boy probably doesn’t notice. But Spike does, and he smiles ruefully.   
  
Angelus had been right about one thing; Spike would always be a soft touch for any needy brunet with a sad story and even sadder eyes.  
  
 _Bugger what Angelus thinks. Especially now._  Spike’s in gameface, for a moment, the blurry, dusty lines of the room taking on a sharp, red-tinged edge. He shakes it off.   
  
In his arms, the boy-- _his_  boy shifts and wriggles like a fish, molding himself to Spike’s body. When he finally settles, his clothes look filthier and rattier next to Spike’s clean leather and denim. His hand looks dead and bloodless against the black of Spike’s t-shirt.  
  
“Master?” His lips shape on Spike’s throat, flickers of tongue and breath causing only passing tremors of interest. For the moment. Every bit of tension in Spike’s body dissolves and he smiles, the demon rumbling audibly, contentedly.  
  
“Yes . . . Master.”  
  
The boy sighs and drops back into sleep. Shortly after, Spike follows. There are no dreams to disturb either of them.


	3. Found 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to "Lost Boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU, post-“Harsh Light of Day”(S4) and Ats “In The Dark”(S1).

At dusk, Spike stands up, shrugs his duster on and looks at the boy.  
  
He’s sitting on a crate that doubles as chair and table, and biting his fingernails miserably. (He’d offered the chair to Spike, when he’d brought Spike in just before dawn, but Spike’d demurred. Didn’t look like it’d hold the weight of anything but a starving child.)  
  
Spike lights a cigarette and watches the nervous boy gnaw his nails bloody. He tries not to feel like Henry Higgins—this boy is no Audrey Hepburn, and that’s the gospel truth, there—but he can’t help the smile that curves his lips around the cigarette.  
  
“Here, now, pet. Hope there’s not anything in this place you value.”  
  
The boy’s eyes drift slowly up to Spike’s, confused but alert, the question in them nearly audible. In response, Spike takes one last drag on his cigarette before pitching it into the boy’s squalid, make-shift bed. It seconds,the flames are leaping toward the ceiling.  
  
“Oh,” the boy says, frowning as if trying to concentrate on a complex math problem. Spike’s seen  _Rain Man_ \--Dru’d dragged him, one evening, nattering on about bloody Dustin Hoffman—and allowed that he very well could be. No telling how the blood is going to affect someone.  
  
“I—I rigged an electrical line once . . . so I c-could listen to my radio and maybe have some more light but someone stole my stuff a couple years ago and I didn’t have the money to get  _new_  stuff and all my comics are back in Sunnydale, anyway, so. . . .” the boy trails off—forlornly, he does everything that way, it seems. “This isn’t a nice neighborhood anymore.”  
  
“Get a lot nicer once the two of us scarper.” Spike snorts. The fire’s already made its way up two walls and the ceiling is definitely about to catch. The boy looks more pathetically lost than ever, but Spike thinks he understands.  
  
He holds out his hand in invitation, 99% sure it will be taken.  
  
“They—whoever they were—stole my extra sweaters, too, but I found these the next night,” the boy informs Spike very solemnly, gesturing to the three or four sweaters he’s currently wearing. Then he looks once more around the smoky room, his expressions as morose as ever. “They aren't warm enough, though. They never are.”  
  
But he looks at Spike and slowly stands up . . . steps forward and takes Spike’s hand tentatively, his mouth almost bending into something that’s almost a not-frown.   
  
"By George, I think he’s got it," Spike murmurs. He expects more confusion, but actually gets a wan smile instead, and soft, not even remotely tuneful crooning:  
  
 _" Who takes good care of me,_  
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?  
  
“You're full of surprises." Spike laughs, and pulls the boy close. "Right, then. Let’s be off.”  
  
Spike leads him out of the swiftly burning room.


	4. Found 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU, post-“Harsh Light of Day”(S4) and Ats “In The Dark”(S1).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to "Lost Boy."

“Oh, wow. . . .” the boy breathes.   
  
The motor lodge Spike’d got them a “suite” in is nothing special—worn, seen better days, but clean. No creepy-crawlies and in good repair.   
  
No, nothing special, but the boy goggles around like it’s the Taj Mahal, turning a slow, awed circle, eyes as wide as saucers.   
  
So, as shabby as the room is, Spike tries to see it through the eyes of an even shabbier boy.   
  
Can’t seem to do it though. Not that there’s any real need to. A few days—a week tops’ll see the boy battle-ready, and then, it’s back to the Hellmouth to kill that interfering bitch of a Slayer. After that. . . .   
  
Anywhere but bloody SoCal.  
  
“Take it this room’ll do ya fine, then?” Spike shrugs off his duster and tosses it on the bed. “You’ll not be wantin’ to find a Ritz-Carlton?”  
  
The boy doesn’t get the joke, doesn’t hear him. He’s being distracted by the old, scratched microwave that holds a dubious place of honor on the counter of the “kitchen”. Creeping up on it slowly (so it doesn’t run away?) one shaking hand outstretched as if he’s reaching for the Holy Grail.  
  
When he finally dares to touch it, a deep shudder goes through him . . . then he pets it like the family dog.  
  
“It’s so beautiful.” The boy turns a tear-bright gaze on Spike. “Like out of a fairy-tale.”  
  
Spike doesn’t know whether to laugh, or have the kid committed. “Hardly,” he snorts. Though if he were to squint hard, the water stains on the ceiling could be viewed as bad modern art.  
  
“It’s nicer than any place I can remember living . . . I think.” The boy bites his lip and looks at the microwave like a young man gazing upon his ain true love. “After I got . . . vampified, everything was weird and jumble-y. Sometimes—it’s like there’s two of me, both with permanent fog-on-the-brain. But I remember these. You can blow stuff up in them.”   
  
“We won’t be, though.” Spike shrugs, pats himself down for cigarettes and remembers they’re in his duster. The boy’s rubbing off on him, and not in the naughty-tingly way. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be so easily impressed. This place and everything in it is one step above shithole, including that damn microwave. It’s beneath your notice, and you’ve got to learn to tell the difference.”  
  
“Oh.” The boy says, visibly shrinking into himself, his hand shying away from the microwave as if he’d just been caught stealing. “I—s-sor—“  
  
“Bloody hell--stop that cringing and come here!  _Come here_ ,” Spike commands when the boy doesn’t seem inclined to move. In fact, he leaves the microwave’s side only reluctantly, and drifts listlessly over to Spike, who pulls him close. Underneath three sheep worth of threadbare sweaters, he feels about as relaxed in Spike’s arms as one of Angelus’s victims. “I'm not going to hurt you . . . until you ask me to. So I don't want you wilting every time I raise my voice, alright?”  
  
The boy nods, staring holes into Spike’s collarbone.   
  
 _Maybe once he’s had someone to eat he’ll stop being so skittish. . . ._  “So I’m guessing that you’re probably wanting to grab a quick bite--get some new clothes, too, then--”   
  
“The wiring was easy, though I got electrocuted a few times. But I--I couldn’t rig water pipes.” The boy admits, no doubt doing his bloodless best to blush. He plucks at the right sleeve of the top sweater. “And it doesn’t rain a lot in L.A.”  
  
“Not your fault, is it pet?” A shake of the boy’s head, and it takes a few seconds, but yes, his sequiturs are becoming less and less non the longer he’s around Spike. “A shower’s what you’re wanting, right?” A nod. “Well, go on, then. Don’t need my permission to bathe, for future reference. Take as long as you like.”  
  
“Really?”   
  
“Really.” The boy’s perked up more about the bloody shower than he has about being Spike’s. The demon grumbles, whispering things like  _take_ , and  _claim_ , but there’ll be time for that later, after Spike’s run a few errands.  
  
“Plenty of time later,” Spike reassures the both of them, brushing back the boy’s hair and caressing his face. When the boy’s eyes flutter shut in concentration and—yes, pleasure, Spike leans in and kisses him, long and slow. He tastes . . . off, like cheap coffee and bitter tears, but he responds eagerly enough, his hands fluttering about Spike’s shoulders like dead butterflies.   
  
When Spike leans away, the boy follows him, looking completely dazed. This time, Spike can tell it’s in the  _good_ way.   
  
 _There’ll be time to take the boy hunting tomorrow night. Tonight, I think we’ll stay in._  
  
“Sooner you’re in, the sooner you’re out. Go on.” Spike nudges the kid toward the bathroom. About halfway there, he turns to look back at Spike, alarm written large on his face. His eyes are as huge and pathetic as Spike soft spot can make them. “I’ll be here when you get out. Understand?”  
  
The boy nods but doesn’t meet Spike’s eyes, and that sort of faithlessness won’t do at all, not for one bare moment. And in less than that time—in a move the boy probably couldn’t even see, let alone duplicate--Spike’s blocking the way to the bathroom and in gameface.   
  
He catches the boy’s chin--gets right in his face until his dark eyes widen with the kind of reverence heretofore reserved for outmoded kitchen appliances. This is a moment his demon should recognize, even if the boy doesn’t. “Do you understand?”  
  
It’s a drawn out, quiet challenge, oddly similar to the ones Spike’d had with Angelus and Darla (most of which he’d inevitably lost, in much the same way the boy's about to lose this one).   
  
Of course this boy, being who he is, seems  _relieved_  by the show of dominance, not chastened or angry. He nods again, that tiny not-frown lightening the misery written on his face. “Yes. I understand.”  
  
“Good.” Away goes gameface and out comes a serenely indulgent smile. The boy probably can’t tell that Spike suddenly feels in over his head . . . just a bit. “Go on, then. And don’t forget behind your ears.”   
  
When the bathroom door snicks shut, Spike sits on the bed, drained.


	5. Found 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to "Lost Boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU, post-“Harsh Light of Day”(S4) and Ats “In The Dark”(S1).

“’Take your time, pet’, I said. ‘Sooner you’re in, the sooner you’re out’. Right.”  
  
Spike lays back on the bed, glancing at the digital clock/radio; it’s going on two hours since the boy went in there. One, at least, since the  _slip-whish_  sounds of washing have stopped. Except for the occasional deep sigh, the boy is simply standing motionless under scalding hot water.  
  
Which actually started running luke-warm, then tepid a half an hour ago.  
  
Spike’s starting to wonder if maybe he should’ve gone and joined the boy, after all—-if he’d been mistaken to assume that’d be pushing things a bit too fast—-when the water finally cuts off.  
  
“About bloody time,” he mutters, trying to school his face into an expression that doesn’t telegraph  _towering, murderous impatience_ , so much as it reassures that  _I would’ve waited eternity for you, love_.  
  
He’s still trying when the toweling sounds have stopped.  
  
When the door cracks open and one dark eye peers out, he’s just about nailed it.  
  
“Um,” the boy states with impressive indecision. Spike wants to hurtle across the room and grab the kid . . . fuck some spine into him, or something.   
  
Self-control. Spike can do self-control.  
  
“Well? Come on, out with it, pet!”  
  
“M-my clothes--“  
  
“Burned 'em in the alley behind the motel, as of an hour and fifty-five minutes ago. I’ll get you a new kit tomorrow night.”   
  
“Oh.” The boy blinks and the space between door and jamb narrows. “Okay.”  
  
“Oi!” The door stops and the tiny sliver of eye still visible locks on Spike. “You reckon maybe you’re done tryin’ to turn yourself into a prune?”  
  
“Yes.” After nearly an entire minute of careful thought, and so low, even Spike can barely hear it.  
  
“Then come out of there! You’re not hiding in that bathroom till tomorrow night!”  
  
Spike expects an argument—-silly, but he does—-and is slightly disappointed when he doesn’t get one. He doesn’t even get a typically teenage roll of the eyes.  
  
It’s as if the boy has no fight in him whatsoever.   
  
 _Not that that’s unappealing, but he can’t stay like this if he’s to survive. No matter how well I protect him, there’s going to come a time he’ll have to stand on his own. Hopefully, not any time soon. . . ._  
  
“I--I’m only wearing a towel,” the sliver of eye says apologetically, finally opening the door just enough to emit one tall, broad-shouldered string bean of a boy.   
  
He’s cave-dweller pale-—makes Angelus look like George Hamilton. His hair is thick and damp, falling into his face and obscuring his features but for the glitter of his eyes.   
  
He's a few desperate shades above emaciation, but despite his gauntness—-the prominence of collarbones and the gentle shadowing of ribs and sternum—-his frame looks solid and strong.   
  
A steady diet of  _human_  blood’d fill him right out.  
  
Pleased, Spike beckons his boy closer. The kid sidles across the room--eyes darting everywhere but at Spike--clutching the towel around him as if it’s the shroud of bloody Turin.  
  
When he gets to the bed, he perches gingerly on the edge, his hair curtaining his face from Spike’s view.   
  
 _Stand on his own. Right, he’s barely up to making friends with the microwave. Any yob with a grudge against me’s gonna go through_ him _first . . . like a hot knife through butter. . . ._  
  
Spike sits up runs his hand up the pale, unmarred expanse of back. The boy arches ever so slightly under his touch, and leans closer as Spike brushes his hair behind his ear.   
  
“Look at me, pet,” Spike murmurs, when the boy still doesn’t open his eyes.   
  
He’s slow to obey . . . not from insolence, but from fear. His eyes, when they meet Spike’s are as confused and frightened as they were the night Spike first saw him, walking tense and slump-shouldered down a dark alley.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Spike’s the one to be confused now, blinking warily at the kid like some odd sort of role reversal. “Why what?”  
  
“Why  _me_ , William?” The boy looks down again; on the bedspread, his hand fidgets--actually looks alive, not like some dead, drowned thing, beached upon a faded burgundy strand.  
  
“Why  _not_  you?” Spike demands angrily. But as soon as the anger waxes it wanes, with no sign of who it’d been directed at more. “Having second thoughts, are we?”  
  
“No! No, I-—“ the boy risks another miserable glance at Spike. What he sees makes him cringe, and focus on the bedspread once more. “I’m nobody. Nobody wants me. I’m not human and I don’t know how to be vampire—-I’m pretty sure I don't  _want_  to be a vampire. I’m nothing . . . I’m—-“  
  
“ _Mine_.” Spike says, turning the boy’s face to his. There are tears running down his face that even Spike’s fingers aren’t fast enough to catch. “You’re mine. I’ll keep tellin’ you and  _showin’_  you till you believe it. Till you know it up here—-“ Spike taps the boy’s forehead. “And in here.”  
  
His hand settles over the boy’s heart, eliciting a shuddery gasp. He sways closer to Spike. His fidgeting on the bedspread has turned into the occasional twitch.   
  
“You’re not nothing, pet, understand me?” The boy shakes his head, clearly unable to grasp what Spike’s telling him. In that moment, the idea of turning this kid, these broken up bits of  _boy_  into a vampire--in more than name and lack of soul--is too daunting to contemplate. “Look, I dunno who filled your head with that load of bollocks, but who’re you gonna listen to? Them, or me?”  
  
“But he s-said I’m just a shadow—-“  
  
“Well, I say you’re not. And I’m your Master, so there’s the end of it.” Spike’s leant in, stolen a kiss and pulled away before the boy’s lips part in surprise. The hand that was on the bedspread flies to his mouth.  
  
“That—-it feels so different now that I’m warm, too.” The boy smiles and it’s still too small, too scared . . . but it’s genuine. “It feels even better.”  
  
Spike doesn’t need to be told. The fear smell—-like cloves and heated iron--that surrounds the boy like a cloud has been leavened with desire, tart and bright as oranges.  
  
The towel is suddenly leaving a lot less to the imagination.  
  
This time, when Spike steals a kiss, the boy meets him halfway, his body curving and yearning toward Spike’s in a way that’s definitely not timid.   
  
“You’ll see, pet.” He settles his hands on water-hot flesh and the boy moves closer: whether it’s desire, or his demon’s instincts, he straddles Spike’s legs with no prompting. He looks into Spike's eyes steadily, hopefully, and his arms wind around Spike’s neck--panick-y strong.   
  
Nothing Spike couldn’t break, were he not so very inclined to do otherwise.   
  
”I’ll show you, and I’ll show you till you  _ache_  from knowing just how  _mine_  you are.” Spike sends towel he’d been clutching sailing across the room, towards the telly. The boy doesn’t break gazes or shy away when the hand that’d been resting over his heart slides down his stomach to grasp his cock and stroke.   
  
His head falls back a bit and a low rumbling starts in his chest. To Spike’s ears, it sounds almost like a growl. He chuckles, and darts in to kiss the boy’s neck and throat. Here, underneath the scent of soap and clean, warm skin, the boy’s scent is strongest: earthy, dark and sweet, like coffee and caramelized sugar. Threaded through it, like a discordant minor in a song composed of major 7ths, is the scent of dead roses and opium.  
  
The boy’s tugging on the back of Spike’s shirt like he wants to take it off—-or tear it off—-but doesn’t quite dare, trying to hold still though it's obvious he wants to thrust into Spike's hand.   
  
It’s all Spike can do not to push him down to the bed and take him. But he wants this boy willingly, wants the boy to want  _him_  bad enough to try some taking of his own.   
  
"William. . . ."  
  
He just doesn't know where he's supposed to find that kind of patience and willpower when the boy simply panting in his ear is enough to break his resolve.  
  
“What--what happens when you don’t w-want me anymore?” Each breath is fast, shallow and shower-warmed. He moans when Spike’s other hand tangles in his hair and pulls his head back. Hazy gold-brown eyes seek out his own and the fingers clutching at his back tear shirt and skin with an audible  _riiip!_  
  
“That won’t happen,” Spike promises, licking Darla’s mark. It’s as readable to his lips and tongue as English is to his eyes . . . but not for much longer. Spike’s going to put his own marks over it as many times as necessary. “I'll never let you be cold or alone ever again.”  
  
No one’ll ever guess the boy’d ever been anyone’s but  _his_.   
  
Across the room, the forgotten towel falls off the telly with a near-silent slither that’s lost under the sound of their breathing.  
  
The sound of flesh on flesh.  
  
The sound of fangs breaking skin. 


	6. Found 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to "Lost Boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU, post-“Harsh Light of Day”(S4) and Ats “In The Dark”(S1).

When Spike finishes drinking--not nearly his fill, but there's not much to this kid, as of yet--the boy has stopped breathing, but for the odd fitful gasp.  
  
He sags in Spike's arms like an ineptly-made scarecrow; his muscles are lax and his erection has wilted. And no wonder: there's aught to the kid's blood and aught keeping him animated beyond the same magic that keeps his corpse preserved. Kid barely had enough blood to keep three synapses firing, let alone sustain a hard-on.  
  
Spike takes a moment to remember the fleeting taste of the boy’s blood. Thin, bitter--tasting strongly of death and dark magic, it’d lacked the salty-sweet richness that comes with a steady diet of healthy human blood.   
  
"Poor boy," he murmurs, laying the boy down gently. His dark eyes are dull and dazed from just the few perfunctory mouthfuls Spike had taken, but they follow Spike trustfully. Depleted blue-green veins are too close to the surface of his porcelain-pale skin. "Poor lost boy."   
  
Pale pink-grey lips curve very slightly. "Not lost. Not anymore . . . Master."   
  
The certainty in the boy's voice, and the trust that shines ever stronger out of his dark eyes makes something in Spike’s chest-- _can't be the heart;_ that's _dead beyond resurrection_ \--turns over. He hastens to give reassurances that, for the moment, seem to be unnecessary. "That's right, love. Not anymore . . . never again."   
  
“Never again.” The curve of lips widens, is almost a smile, is almost radiant for a moment. Then the boy is blinking and frowning again. "Can I go to sleep now, William?"  
  
"Not just yet, love. Got somethin' that'll perk ya right up, don't I? Make you feel strong and awake-—like bloody Superman." Spike stands up, careful not to jostle boy or bed, and takes off his t-shirt. The Docs get kicked off his feet and across the room, the jeans get skinned off in a trice and Spike's back in bed, gathering the boy to him. His breath, deep and unnecessary, catches when a soft, stuttered sigh tickles his skin.   
  
"Go on, love. Drink.  
  
For a minute, nothing happens--not  _even_  a stuttered sigh. Then the kid whispers something below Spike's hearing range.   
  
"Speak up, love. Told you, you're not to fear me."   
  
"I said, I don't know how . . . to . . . do  _that_."  
  
 _Oh, bloody--!_  " _Bite_."  
  
Another full minute, then blunt and uncertain human teeth nip half-heartedly at his throat. And in the wrong place, no less.  
  
It'd be cute if it weren't so bloody pathetic. So bloody  _wrong_.  
  
"Might help if you were in gameface, yeah? Let your demon come out and play? It’ll be alright, I've got you." The only person Spike's ever used this sort of tone and these sort of words with is Drusilla.   
  
(Spike tells himself that now is not the time to examine why using them to calm and guide this boy feels even more natural.)   
  
"I  _can’t_." Another sigh, this time frustrated, and accompanied by a tentative lick that makes cool shivers dance up and down Spike's spine. "It m-made me do bad things so I put it away and I forgot it and I don’t remember how to bring it back,” the kid blurts out, struggling to twist away from Spike. It takes no effort at all to hold him closer, still.  
  
"Don't remember?" Spike snorts, brushing the kid’s mouth with his index finger before tilting the kid’s still-human face back toward his throat. "Don't reckon those rats you've been livin' off of cut their little wrists to feed you, eh, pet?"  
  
The boy lifts his hand as if it weighs a thousand pounds, then lowers it till his fingertips just graze the center of Spike's chest. He follows the trail of dark blond hair down to just past Spike' belly button and, with an exquisitely perverse sense of timing,  _stops_. . . .  
  
Spike grits his teeth and keeps a tight rein on the demon--who’s all for pushing the boy’s hand that last few inches lower, or simply turning the boy onto his stomach and taking him—-before it pushes him into something precipitous and Angelus-like.   
  
Brute force, though it’d work a treat in the short run, would only make the kid as servile and spineless as a minion, which is the last thing Spike wants.  
  
"M-my knife, when it was new--one slice was all it took and the blood would pour right out of them, like water." Jagged, bitten nails snag on Spike's skin without breaking it and the boy sits up, sneaking tense glances at Spike’s face. "But it got rusty and dull and c-crudded up, so now I have to saw and saw at them, and they won't stop squeaking and b-biting me, so I have to snap their necks before I--"   
  
"Right," Spike declares, effectively halting this unwanted confession and catching the boy’s hand. He pulls it up to his lips, kissing the nervous fingers still before resting it over his unbeating heart. "What say I help you along, just this once, yeah?"   
  
"How?" The boy asks, managing to look and sound contrite, intrigued and apprehensive all at once. In answer, Spike bites into his own wrist, briefly lost in the brighthotsharp pain . . . then there’s a steady, warmish flow of blood running down his wrist and dripping on his chest. He holds it out to the gobstruck boy.  
  
"Go on, drink." Spike's voice is still gentle, but showing strain at the seams. " _Drink_." He orders when the boy just sits there looking mesmerized and puzzled.  
  
There's a golden flicker in the boy's eyes, and another moment of hesitation, and he darts in to lick at the blood running down Spike's arm. Raspy kitten-licks that leave Spike panting and try his demon's patience nearly to the breaking point.   
  
 _Now's not the time to play coy, pet!_  Spike's about to snap, when the boy's mouth latches onto the already closing wound and he begins to suck. Not the shy, polite sips Spike expects, but deep, purposeful  _mouthfuls_ , his eyes slipping shut as shudders deep enough to register on the Richter scale shake him.   
  
Even his face quivers—minutely . . . like crystal under the onslaught of a high-C.  
  
There's only the faintest prickling of the  _suggestion_  of fangs, and that's all the warning Spike gets before there's what feels like eight mouths' worth of fangs buried in his wrist--damn near to the bone. The boy's jagged, bitten nails also make themselves at home in the flesh of Spike's arm and chest.   
  
 _Well, well,_  Spike thinks, half amused and half relieved, lances of pain and pleasure going straight to his cock.  _The kid’s got some bite to him, after all._  
  
Pleased, he lets the boy drink his fill for most of a minute, then tangles his free hand in the boy's thick, soft hair.   
  
A distracted growl is the only response he gets to not-so-gentle tugs.  
  
 _Bite_ and _balls, it would seem. . . ._  
  
"That's enough, pet,” Spike says mildly, with just a hint of steel in his voice. “Don't make me repeat myself."   
  
For a few seconds, he's sure the boy's going to ignore that, as well-- _good for him, if he does,_  the demon hisses--but he withdraws his fangs, rather more carefully than he'd inserted them. He licks Spike's wrist attentively, until the bleeding stops and the wounds are nearly healed, then licks the rest of Spike’s arm clean.  
  
When he faces Spike, there isn't a stray drop of blood on or around his mouth and his eyes are golden and guiltless in a sharp-planed predator's face. His skin is no longer corpse-white; it’s taken on a faint rosy flush. As he fills out, his facial ridges will be less prominent, but still strong.   
  
"How do you feel?" Spike asks, brushing the boy’ s hair out of his face to get a better look at him. He’s pleased all out of proportion when the boy leans into his touch contentedly.  
  
"Clearer." The boy licks his lips again, as if chasing down hints of blood he might have missed. "Stronger. Restless. Like I need to . . . fight and--and--"   
  
"Fuck?" Spike adds with a smirk, pulling the boy against him.  _Not wilted, anymore_ , he’s pleased to note. The boy’s not  _shy_  anymore, either. He's grinding against Spike with no hesitation and no shame, a delighted little growl escaping him when Spike rolls them over and pins him to the bed.  
  
"Yeah . . . that too." His gameface fades slowly away, till all that's left of it is golden embers in the depths of guileless brown eyes. His human face looks different, somehow;  _finished_. He still looks young, still looks innocent. But it's no longer the innocence of a hunted rabbit . . . it’s that of an untried predator, ready for his first hunt.   
  
 _Perhaps we’ll be going out tonight, after all._  Spike grins. The idea of watching this boy-- _his boy_  hunt and feed--  
  
Taking  _his boy_  next to the still-warm body. . . .  
  
This appeals to Spike's demon very, very much.  
  
The boy smiles-—a narrow, hungry sort of smile he wouldn't have been capable of even five minutes ago—-and the demon is there in it, alright. Present and very much accounted for.  
  
"I wanna fight, and I wanna  _fuck_ , but most of all I want to . . . feed." This last isn't plaintive or hesitant, but contemplative, as if the boy's rolling the feeling around in his brain to be sure he hasn't mistaken it.   
  
He licks his lips again, more gold lightening his dark eyes to Halloween-hazel, and tucks his face up into the curve of Spike's neck and shoulder for something too toothy and intent to be nuzzling. Spike pushes the boy's legs up and out, switching to gameface.   
  
His first thrust makes the boy cry out and wrap his arms around Spike's neck. Soon, Spike's lost himself in the irresistible dance of  _take-and-claim_ , lost himself in this  _boy_.  
  
This strange, innocent boy who laughs, and peppers Spike with kisses that draw blood.   
  
"Yeah," he breathes, in gameface again and holding on for dear unlife. "I wanna  _feed_." 


End file.
